“Jose needs to be with children his own age,” Tonia said from her place on the king-sized bed. She was a masterpiece of beauty painted to feminine perfection. Black hair tumbled behind her shoulder as if an artist swirled the tendrils into place with the tip of a brush. Gold glimmered at her wrists and throat and on her fingers. Ramon had placed them there, the gilded frames for the portrait of her beauty.

Dios Mio, how did I marry such a woman?

He tried to help her understand. “It is what is best for Jose.”

“You took him to Dr. Evans to test his IQ. He is so smart, Poppy, why would you take him out of school now?”

“He is in danger because of me.”

“What sort of danger?” She rose from the bed like a goddess from the sea, her sapphire gown clinging like water to her body of curves and planes, and she came to him where he stood beside the dresser. Fear marred her perfectly sculpted face. She touched the sleeve of his shirt. “What are you talking about?”

He pulled away. Sometimes her clinging annoyed Ramon. Touching was for the bed only. “I’m talking about my wealth Tonia,” he said, redoing his tie now that she’d interrupted his movements. “Jose has never been safe at school. There have been threats.”

“Threats?”

“I am not worried for me but for Jose. He is an easy target at school and I want him safe at home.”

Concern deepened her voice. “What sort of threats?”
Her pestering disturbed him. He dropped his hands, leaving the tie alone for the moment. “What if someone took him, eh, kidnapped him for money?”

“Then we would pay,” she said simply. She was a simple woman after all.

He snorted a laugh and again worked on the material around his neck. “We will not take the chance.”

Tonia was silent a moment. “It is illegal to keep him out of school, Poppy.” With a sensuous turn of her head, she pouted her red lips. It was a ruse she sometimes used to get her way. “He’s nine years old and he must learn math and science.” She reached for him again, pushed his hands away from the tie and began to fold the fabric herself. “How will he take over your shipping business when he grows up?”

Ramon took her hands in his, to stop her. “You will teach him at home.”

She moved closer, pressing her body to his. “What do I know about schooling a boy? Now a man…” She let her voice drift away and she lifted her face to him inviting him to kiss her.

Ramon took her shoulders and put her away from him. He loved her games but he would not change his mind. “A private teacher, no?”

Tonia’s dark eyes smoldered. He knew why she was angry. She had not turned his heart.

Ramon released her hands and left her to stand beside the dresser. He moved toward the closet for his shoes, feeling irritated and edgy. Tonia always relented to whatever he wanted. She loved him, respected him. Sometimes he believed she feared him, but that was the way of love. “My decision is for his own good.”

“But he would be a locked away here. I do not like it.”

He turned sharply. “What is so bad about being here, huh? I am protecting him. He will understand.”

“I don’t understand.” A wounded expression crossed her brow. “Poppy this is no good.”

He let stone flow into his features and hardened his voice. “It is decided.” Ramon leaned closer, staring until Tonia leaned away, refusing to make eye contact. “We will hire a teacher. I will let you choose.”

Without a word, she turned and left the bedroom, her back stiff, and with her head held high.

            She thinks I am jealous of the boy.

Tania accused him before, playfully. Now Ramon wondered if she thought it more seriously. But she didn’t realize the danger.

He went to the bed and tied his shoe. She’d never accused him of such a thing. Ramon would find reason to discipline her if she ever did. He never wanted to strike her. She’d never experienced the atrocities in life and he would protect her from such things. He wanted to surround her with beauty and devotion. But that was not what she’d seen from him this morning. He’d been sharp with her and now sorrow draped his heart like a black veil.

He would make this up to her. Pressing a button near the bed, he spoke in a crisp tone. “Manny, come to my room.” The man arrived before a minute passed. Ramon said, “Bring me the sapphire. The one at the Ferlita’s.”

Manny nodded and left the room the same way he’d entered, as quietly as death itself.

A late word here regarding the pace of your writing. Pace = movement. Conversation, of course, is one type of movement, as is action. In this scene I used Ramon’s feelings. He went from devotion, to annoyance, to irritation, and then back to devotion in both the scene and the sequel. Did you recognize the sequel?  Tomorrow we return to Maizie. Hope you’ll join me. 

Elizabeth Lyon’s explains back-story wounds in Manuscript Makeover.

“The types of past events that mesh best with the inner characterization story tend to be those that have left emotional wounds. The idea is that until protagonists come to term with their pasts, they will always control them. Resolving the past supplies deep motivation for their actions. To be free of the wound means they will be able to transform themselves and their lives.”

In other words, I need to explain to readers what caused Maizie to turn to a life a crime (when she was alive), why Ramon hurt his child and believes it’s alright to do so, and I need to explain Alex’s motivation for moving to Ybor City. Writing in the back-story gives your character depth and keeps your reader’s interest.

After a tour of the building, the police recruiter left Alex to wait in a chair outside Chief Karl Norrick’s office. He hadn’t expected to meet the chief right away, thought a captain or lieutenant would run through the routine with him and then leave instructions for him to shadow another detective for a few days. Hell, he didn’t want to meet the chief. Norrick might ask questions about motive and whether or not Alex had come to settle a score.

(Decision) Of course he’d come to settle the score. JD was dead.

JD’s dead…

(Reflection) He still couldn’t believe it. His younger brother, the guy who could handle anything, was gone. But if Alex found Hermano Mayor, ever figured out who the piece of shit was, he was going to do more than leave him disemboweled in a cemetery and struggling to find the street to call for help.

 (Emotion) Grief made his hands shake and the nausea came again. Leaning forward he took a long breath. Breathe, come on. This is no time to lose it…

I suppose you noticed that I’ve broken the pattern of the sequel. Normally you write emotion first, reflection second, and the decision comes last so that you move right into the scene. But it’s a good idea to break pattern now again or you will bore your reader.

(Begin the scene) The sound of a door being torn off its hinges caused him to straighten in the chair. In front of him was a man the size of a polar bear. “Knight?” the man growled. Norrick had on the same black uniform as every other cop in the station but wore it with a lot more conviction than anyone else. He was in his fifties, had snow-white hair, brows, and mustache that could be mistaken for an icecap.

“Yes Sir,” he said, getting to his feet. His head was still spinning, but he blinked it away and nodded to his new boss. It was important that he didn’t give anything away here. He didn’t want the chief to know the real reason he’d transferred to Tampa. (Goal.)

He’d met the man at JD’s funeral two weeks earlier. They hadn’t spoken, only shared the same crushing handshake as they did now. Alex followed him into the office. It wasn’t a large space, just big enough for a desk and three chairs – or maybe Norrick dwarfed everything in comparison – it was hard to tell. There was only one window in the room and it overlooked the parking lot and a ball field across the street.

He kept his back turned and said “I can see my grandkid’s games from here.” He pointed past the glass. “If it wasn’t for that damn tree, I could see him run the bases.” While the chief continued in his grudge against nature, probably trying to figure out how to rip the oak out with his bare hands, Alex read the plaques covering every inch of wall space. Apparently Norrick was a sharpshooter, a top gun, and had once been a member of the Tampa Tactical Squad. A few trophies set in a display case behind the desk. Framed certificates covered another wall. The chief had won the Medal of Honor, the Medal of Valor, and the Medal of Merit. Apparently he was a one-man police squad.

Norrick spun on his heel. Alex expected another offer of condolence and didn’t know if he could stand it. He just wanted to get this over with and get out onto the streets and try to find something, anything, that would help him figure out who’d killed…

“Knight, you look like one of the dogs tore you up,” he snarled, interrupting Alex’s thoughts. His frosted green eyes traveled Alex’s face while the top of his lip curled in distaste. (Conflict, twist 1)

Alex hesitated. “…No sir. The water is out at my new place.”

“Get it fixed. Quick.”

“Yes Sir.”

“I know why you’re here,” he interrupted rapid fire. (Twist 2)

No you don’t.

Alex cleared his throat and repeated what he’d rehearsed in his head on the drive over. “I want to work where JD worked. I think it will be therapeutic.”

Norrick considered the words with a faint frown line between his white brows. “Cut the crap, you want revenge. But I’m not going to let you have that.”

Alex took in a slow breath through his nose. This guy was a hard ass and thought he thought he could read minds. The arctic eyes leveled on him. “My words have set you on edge I see so let me explain a few things to you.”

His shoulder’s nearly creaked from holding himself completely still. It doesn’t matter what you explain old man…

“I plan to keep a close eye on you so that you don’t go wandering off on your own and try to find JD’s murderer by yourself.”

            “I know who killed him,” he let slip before he could stop himself.

The chief took one quick step and leaned toward Alex. “There you go, thinking you know more than I do already.” Alex willed himself not to back away from the bear. He was fishing for salmon that were swimming upstream. “There are things going on here that you don’t know about. I’ve got the FBI breathing down my neck. I can’t make a move without Talley paying a visit to my office.”

That surprised Alex. “What? The FBI is involved. Why?” (Twist 3)

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Waves of anger replaced the nausea rolling in his stomach. “So you’re letting them handle it?”
“I am, and so are you.”

“I don’t work for the feds.”

“No, you work for me.” The hardness in his tone caused Alex to clamp his mouth shut. “I brought you here because I need men. Budget cuts won’t allow me to hire recruits, so before the commission can screw this department further, I’ll transfer in every man I can get my hands on.” He leaned forward with his eyes trying to bore a hole into the bridge of Alex’s nose. “But I don’t need a disciplinary problem, got it? You do your job, keep you head down, and I’ll throw you as much information as I can. But if you get in the fed’s way, if you get in my way, I’ll personally haul your ass back to Polk County in the back of a cruiser handcuffed and kicking.” He didn’t wait for a response, glared at the doorway, and shouted, “Muller.” (Tactical Disaster to end the scene)

It was the bear calling to the cub.

A plain-clothes detective skirted around the corner in less than a second, as if he’d been lingering outside and listening to the conversation. Norrick said, “Show him to his desk and let Bishop have him when you leave for the medical examiner’s office.” His carnivore glare settled on Alex once more. “Go home early and get yourself cleaned up. Don’t come back to this office looking less than professional tomorrow.”

Sequel:

He tried to let the anger go, (emotion) tried to focus on what Sean Muller was talking about as they moved through the hallway to the other side of the building and up a flight of stairs. Why was the FBI involved in JD’s death?

(Reflection) Of course it had everything to do with who killed him. Everyone wanted a piece of Hermano Mayor – but Alex wasn’t going to let that happen. He’d find him first. (Decision)

Some narration for descriptive purposes:

At the end of a hallway, Muller swiped his badge to open the door to Investigations. He whistled the whole time. Nodding, he let Alex enter the room first. He was a red haired man with lean and handsome feature, a wide forehead, and slanted eyebrows. Alex had met him before at his brother’s apartment. JD liked him; said Muller was all right, a bit of a kiss-ass, but good natured and amusing. Alex nodded in return and then entered through the steel doorway.

Like the office in Polk, Investigations was one large room divided into small cubicles. Sean introduced him one-by-one to the eighteen detectives and then showed him to a desk. “This was JD’s.” Someone had cleared it. No papers in the bins, no personal items on the desk to show that his brother was ever there. “We all liked JD. Everybody did. I’m sorry for your loss.”

He remembered Muller from the funeral. Sean had openly cried, like many of the men and women in uniform had; he’d spoke about their friendship, how they’d been closer than brothers, and he’d lightened the air with a couple of stories. Alex couldn’t remember anything he’d said exactly. “Thanks,” he told him and set the Stetson on the desk, onto the calendar. He paused when he saw something scribbled on the twenty-first. He leaned in closer, recognizing his brother’s writing. It was bold, hard pressed, and it read, It’s child’s play.

“JD used to talk about you all the time. Said you don’t mind mixing it up.” Muller’s eyes dropped to the gun on Alex’s hip. “Of course you can’t do that around here; you can’t pull your weapon without a reason.” His eyes lifted again and he grinned. “Dammit.”

From around the corner came another detective. He was a tall black man in his early thirties, wearing a plaid shirt and Dockers. A pair of heavy glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose. He glanced from Sean to Alex. “Someone have a question for me?”

“Yea,” Muller said.  “I do. How can you work here and be so shifty?” A detective on the other side of the cubicle laughed. Sean swatted the fellow on the arm and told Alex, “This is Bishop.” Then to Bishop he said, “The chief wants you to show Detective Knight here around the community, but the real question is, are you capable of it?”

Bishop eyed him with a great deal of suspicion. “Why, what are you doing?”

“Got to go see the M.E. The autopsy report is ready on that psychologist we found burned up with his nurse.” He grinned at Alex. “Doesn’t pay to help the crazies. One of them is always gonna go P. Diddy on your ass.”

“I wish someone would go P. Diddy on you,” Bishop told him but didn’t get the same big laughs in the room as Sean did. He frowned a little and turned toward Alex again. His dark eye took in the Stetson hat and the Smith and Wesson on his belt. “You from Texas?”

“No.”

“Hollywood?”

“Polk County.”

He mouthed a silent ah and nodded as if suddenly everything made sense. “Well, let’s go cowboy.”

Alex Knight woke like someone had thrown a cat on him – strung out and spooked. He jerked forward. There’d been a girl… His heart slowed once he realized no one was in the room with him. But there’d been someone… she’d been ordinary looking, short dark hair, wide-eyed, prominent nose… translucent skin. Ghostlike silence settled around him. Dust swirled in a sunbeam shooting through the curtains.

What the crap… where am…?

Tampa, Ybor City, he’d come to find Hermano  – rented this house.

Alex dropped his gaze to the chessboard. D4 to F6. The girl had moved the black pawn… He jumped to his feet. There had been someone in the room with him.

All of a sudden who the girl was, wasn’t as important as the wave of nausea blasting through his intestines. Alex rushed toward the stairs with legs loose and watery. Where’s the john…?  He stumbled for a doorway on his left, and barely in time, found the toilet. There wasn’t much to toss. Had he eaten last night?

Straightening, he pushed the handle on the toilet. The water in the bowl swirled and then slowed. He reached for a light switch. The bulb over the sink flickered, made a popping sound, and snapped off. Dump sweet dump.

Stepping out of the bathroom he saw a kitchen on his right. To his left was the front room again. A bookcase stood behind the lumpy couch and old furniture crowded the room. His gaze moved up the stairway. Cobwebs lined the corner walls. It was all he saw for the light was dim and all the doors were shut. If there’d been a young woman here she was long gone now.

No one would take a chance up there without a fully loaded weapon.

God, his head hurt. He wanted to lie down again and let his stomach settle but instead he reached the cell phone in his back pocket. The green numbers read seven fifteen. He was supposed to be at the police station by eight. Without the water on, he couldn’t shower, so he moved toward the front door. That’s where he found his keys; they were still in the lock. It was a simple thing but it bothered him. A lot. All his attention focused on the ring of keys, they were cold reminders dangling there, mocking him. He’d been careless. The booze made him sloppy, and that was something he couldn’t afford to be right now. He pulled them roughly from the knob.

No more booze.

(Even in a sequel make sure you have outer actions and inner actions. You want your writing to move because movement builds suspense. Suspense is what keeps the reader reading. You don’t want them jumping to the next action scene out of boredom.)

Outside, he descended the three steps into the leaf-covered yard. A siren wailed in the distance and shreds of high clouds blanketed the early sun. Squinting his eyes through the dull light, he took in the neighborhood. Ancient houses lined the brick road the way grave markers hemmed in a deserted churchyard. Some were crumbling, some stood straight; a few were close to the street, others sat further back. Tall trees cast the entire block in shadows.

(Always add scenery in the appropriate places. The above is an appropriate spot. An inappropriate place is in the middle of a scene. You may add it at the beginning, in narration, but never interrupt an action scene. And don’t forget to use similes and metaphors when doing so.)

Alex moved toward the truck and opened the passenger door. Removing the three boxes he’d packed yesterday, he piled them onto the wet ground. A twelve pack of soda lay on its side on the floorboard. He popped one open, swirled the cola in his mouth, gargled, and spit it out onto the dead leaves. Teeth cleaned, fresh breath – what more could a new boss want?

He bent and lifted the boxes out of the dirt. Striding inside, he set them at the foot of the stairway. When he straightened he saw a book on the stair step in front of him. Die Moorsoldaten. He picked it up and leafed through the yellow pages. German literature? He’d thought Ybor City was full of Spanish people, and Cubans, with a few Italians thrown into the mix. Dropping the book back onto the step, he shrugged out of his coat and reached for the top box for a clean shirt. He’d turned around to button up when a strange feeling tapped his back like a finger hammering the length of his spine. It felt as though someone watched him. He could feel eyes on him. Alex pivoted toward the stairs again and peered at the landing. The only thing moving was the cobwebs in the corner. They blew in an upward gust as if someone had been there but moved out of the way fast.

The doors remained shut.

“Jeez…” he let out, finishing buttoning his shirt. He glanced toward the front room for his hat; it was on the sofa. Walking forward, he fit it onto his head, then studied the chessboard again. “No more booze.”

Another point regarding multiple points of view. The lead character should have 70% of the scenes. In my story, Maizie and Ramon will split the remaining 30%. 

So, where I left off was at…

First of all… Black hounds and bones, is that Wyatt Earp?

She made out the shape of a man filling in the doorframe, his trench coat flailing in the wind. A hot blade of terror plunged into her chest. Had he brought hellhounds with him? Had the angel escaped the graveyard and come after her in the form of a gunslinger?

Okay, probably not… It wasn’t a soul who stood there but a man, flesh and blood. Mortal. So what’s with the get up?

He wore all black, a Stetson, and a holstered gun on his waist. Lightning danced in the sky behind him, drawing attention to a box beneath his arm. He took a step forward. The sound of his heavy boot heel on the wood floor sounded strange to Maizie. Foreign. No one had walked around the house in years. Most vagrants came through the busted window in the parlor and lay where they landed, zozzled and hoary eyed – until she scared them off.

But ol’ Wyatt here, now he knew how to make an impression. Square-shouldered and confident, he crossed the foyer in two steps and moved into the parlor. There he dropped the box onto the seat of her grandfather’s rocker.  A creaking noise erupted from the cane chair just as it had back in the day. It was like hearing life, that sound, and Maizie conjured up the memory of Ansel Otto’s aged leather shoes pushing off the floor, his knees creaking as much as the rocker had. The sweet old coot… He’d thought Maizie was alive the whole time he’d been kicking. He’d talked to her all the time.

Thunder rolled overhead and she watched as the man ran his hand along one wall as though searching for a light switch. And for that he’d get nothing but curve balls because the juice had been off in the house since 1968…

The ceiling light popped on.

It burned out a second later. The fact didn’t seem to bother Wyatt as much as it did Maizie. Who turned on the high volts? There was pale light pressing through the windows, by it Wyatt grabbed a flagon of hooch from the box. He took a long pull from the bottle and looked around the room. “What a dump.”

Dump?

Her grandfather’s furniture sat in the same spots as when he’d been alive. The old man’s chess game set out on a table next to the spotty sofa. Books lined the shelves behind it, the bindings worn and cracked. Most of the windows were unbroken and a layer of grim wore on them like a frost-finish. But… dump? Highly insulted, Maizie reached forward and slammed the door shut, hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Wyatt barely seemed to notice. He half-glanced over his shoulder and took another swig of booze. Lightning flashed. He took a couple more steps toward the chessboard. After standing over it for a time, he settled onto the sofa, removed his Stetson, and placed it on the cushion beside him. Long brown hair fell across his brow. He stared at the game board with flat glassy eyes, his scruffy chin slack with liquor.

Splifficated.

Not only that, Maizie couldn’t help but wonder if all the barbershops had closed down in the neighborhood; what had happened to the off-center parts and greased locks that used to make a man look sharp? The average ginks on the street these days looked more like a skid rogues with gibbous flopping hair in their eyes. None were Ramon Novarro. Clark Gable. Those were men – Valentino men.

But I’m musing, aren’t I? Just like I did the whole year of 1974.

Anyhow, droopy-haired Wyatt had to go. Maizie Otto shared her house with no one – especially a boozehound. Reaching out, she tipped over a Tiffany lamp and the crash of glass was ear-splittingly loud. It was a satisfying sound. She’d always hated that lamp. But the gunslinger didn’t flinch. He stared at the glass on the floor and then at the window. Maizie turned to see the window too, at the curtains blowing with the wind through the broken pane.

Wyatt got off the couch and moved across the room. He stood watching the storm for a time.

“That’s right, jump,” she suggested aloud. “Jump. Nobody’ll care.”

He turned around, as if he’d heard her voice, but of course he didn’t. Maizie knew he didn’t. She flitted behind the sofa and with a lot of effort took a book from the shelf. Wyatt studied the glass on the floor, and with the toe of his boot, he shoved the shards beneath the table. Then he sat on the sofa to gaze at the chess pieces again while the wind whipped and howled outside. It was the height of the storm. Lightning crackled just as she threw the book across the room. It hit the wall with a loud thump and then fell, pages open, onto the steps.

He didn’t bother to look up.

“Wyatt, I don’t understand you,” she told him conversationally. “I just threw a book across the room.”

“I’ll kill you,” Wyatt roared. With the force of his words, his head hit the back of the couch.

Maizie flinched. She hadn’t expected him to answer, especially with such jazz.

“Hermano, I’m gonna watch you bleed out and laugh while you bleed out, bleed, and bleed…” His voice dropped to a slurred warble and he leaned to the side. Maizie thought he meant to take a nap but instead he pulled the bean shooter from its holster and pointed it toward the ceiling. A clap of thunder didn’t drown out the explosion as a bullet ricocheted off the ceiling and hit the box on the rocker.

Maizie ducked her head out of old habits, covering her ears, and squeezing her eyes shut. Then she shrieked, “What is wrong with you, you trying to give me lead poisoning or something?” One of her ears still rang from the sound of the shot.

“I’ll give you lead poisoning all right…”

Here he was a latecomer.

“I’m already dead, you twit. And you’re going to have to use a little restraint. The cops will come running if you keep shooting off like that. I know. Believe me…”

Wyatt lowered the pistol. He gazed at the chessboard again. With the barrel of the weapon, he pushed a white pawn forward to d4.

Maizie moved in front of him, concentrated hard, and nudged the black pawn from Ng8 to f6. She leaned in close, smelling his boozy breath. “Your move,” whispered.

Brown eyes met hers. They were hard and absolutely cold. Scary-like, as if he saw her, really saw her. But no one ever saw Maizie anymore – unless they were dead too. A chill went through her. What is this?

He blinked twice, then his shoulders slumped forward and his face went slack as the back of his head hit the sofa again. A soft snoring noise escaped his nostrils.

Kippy.

The child stumbled toward the door and fumbled with the knob until Ramon smacked his small hand away and twisted it himself. They stepped into the narrow hallway. With his hand on Jose’s neck, he forced him forward.

(And here, Ramon hits some conflict. The question the reader will ask is, will the nurse call the police?)

Around the corner was the nurses’ station and behind a counter sat a graying matron with stony eyes. With one sweeping glance, she appraised the boy and got to her feet. Did she mean to question Ramon?

She’ll never get a word out of her mouth if she opens it. (Internalization)

            He watched her hand stray near the phone on top of the counter. Perhaps she meant to call the police…

He raised a brow in question.

The woman’s hand stopped and her eyes fell to the desk in front of her. Obviously she knew him, knew his reputation, and the fact satisfied him down deep in his belly. She would remain silent.

For a time.

(Tactical ending/ answer the question: No, she will not call the police.)

He shoved the boy through another hallway and toward the backdoor they’d always used when visiting Marshall Evans. Ramon slammed into it with his shoulder. With his hand still gripping his son’s slender neck, he stepped into the alley where a black sedan waited for them. Manny Morgado slid out of the driver’s side and opened the passenger door. He was average height, slender, dressed in dark pants and tailored jacket. Morgado was the most sinister gunman Ramon had ever known.

“Kill everyone inside.”

Manny’s brows lifted above his sunglasses, but he didn’t hesitate. Pulling a weapon from beneath his jacket, he moved forward.

“Do not take so long this time. Be done quickly.”

The man nodded and tugged at the office door.

Now, back into a sequel:

Alone again with his son, Ramon thrust Jose into the backseat. He slammed the car door shut. He didn’t want to hear the weeping. It would make him loco and he would hit the boy again.

I have to get rid of him.

Terror (emotion) doused the flames inside him. To eliminate his son meant he’d destroy his wife. He paced toward the front of the car. Tonia was the brightest light in his dark heart. She loved the boy more than she loved Ramon, true. He accepted that. It didn’t diminish his feelings.

El amor cambia nada… Love changes nothing.

(Reflection)

He emptied his mind and hardened his heart, letting it become as the bricks around him. Think on something else. He surveyed the alley. Brick roads, brick buildings, mud and straw. Ramon reached into his shirt pocket for a cigar and lit it with a shaky hand. He inhaled and studied the derelict buildings again. Evans had chosen the worst part of the city to open an office. Not that there were many excellent sectors in Ybor. There was history and culture, yes, but the place had grown old. Loneliness had taken on the shape of a ghost town, falling apart with haunting neglect. Drawing on the corona, Ramon let his eyes drift to the end of the alley, across the road, and toward the wrought iron fence of a graveyard. The sun was beginning to get low and the light of afternoon was on the elaborate iron gateway. El Cementerio de Arcángel was the oldest graveyard in Ybor and it had more than its share of ghost stories. A forest of trees guarded the east route and the graves inside ranged from simple headstones to replicas of the Barcelona Cathedral. A statue of Nebrija purportedly came to life at night and ran among the gravestones and through the surrounding neighborhoods. But Ramon did not believe in such things.

Except something moved between the headstones.

Ramon straightened, waited, and exhaled a long stream of smoke through his nose. The cemetery was closed most of the time. No one had been freshly buried since the thirties. There was no one left alive to visit…

There. A man slipped behind the largest oak tree at the front of the property. After a moment, he tilted his head forward.

A spark of glee jumped to life inside of him.

The backdoor of Evan’s office opened a fraction and Morgado slipped out into the alley again. He patted down the pocket of his jacket. “I locked the front door. What do you want me to do with the bodies?”

“Leave it to me,” he said, nodding toward the cemetery. “I have something else for you to do.”

Manny moved his head and his eyes moved like a laser over the alleyway and then beyond it. Judging from his gaze, he caught sight of the man. With a slow smile, vicious as a notched knife, he returned his hand to his coat pocket. “Estaré de vuelta.”

Ramon took a steady breath. He’d controlled the situation. Every risk was now subdued. One thing remained undone and he moved toward the back door of the office again and pulled the lighter from his pocket. (Decision and action.)

Now to return to Maizie. We ended with a scene where dogs chased her from the cemetery. Now I must show her reaction. We won’t return to 1933 now that we’re in the present. There’s nothing wrong with bouncing back and forth between time, it’s only that I’ve chosen not to do so. We catch up with Maizie in her own sequel. Note that we return to Maizie’s pattern of speech. Whatever I write for Maizie, scene, sequel, or narration, I will always use her “voice.”

Maizie had always thought of Ybor City as a Latino con artist in a pinstripe suit and straw boater hat, riding the trolley to the Columbia Café while reading the La Gaceta newspaper. From the second-story window of her grandfather’s house she could see two of the busiest streets in the city. Wrought iron enclosed the second floor balconies over the “buckeye shops.” Ornate iron lampposts lit the brick streets. La Setima Avenida was the rage, razzle-dazzle – all glamour and grief rolled up into a loaded cigar. Half the time the rich strolled in their glad rags toward society clubs or the Ritz Theater; other times, the Sicilians and the Garduna waged war in the street, carrying out hits, and strong-arming gambling parlors. Sometimes even the coppers showed up.

Over the years Maizie saw the city tire out, like a gangster who’d seen too much action. The cigar factories locked their doors and the tabaqueros moved away. El Reloj, the four-faced clock, ceased tolling on the half-hours. Miranda no longer sold crab croquettes and the bakery truck driver stopped hawking Bolito tickets along with his cakes, pies, and donuts.

Ybor City grew old and the smell of stale tobacco hung onto the place like cheap cologne lingered on the suit after it got shoved in the closet for the last time. Now the aged con man slept all day, looking nothing like its flashy past. Only at night did it open its eyes when the young hincty-hincts packed the juice joints on 7th and 8th Avenues. Any illegal activity was curbed to a few muggings during the day and minor drug dealings near the Ritz in the evening. All of it done out in the open too, as if the modern criminal was screwy or something.

Back in her day a thief had to use her brains to push over a patsy. Any rube could steal. Counterfeiting, on the other hand, required panache and sophistication. Just about any buddy ghee could rob someone stepping away from a nightclub. It was downright effortless. But it took artful preparation to nab a set of blue prints and know the place inside out before entering a bank and robbing it. And if a thief was slick enough, she knew the combination to the safe before cracking it too.

Yes, Maizie had studied the latest hustlers and grifters and declared them all to be twits. Or maybe she was just tired too, like Ybor City.  She’d seen her mother go on and her grandfather too. Even Basillo went on, which seemed unfair. If a crook like him could get a pass into that great cigar factory in the sky, how come she couldn’t? Her half-sister Evita died at age ninety-three. Maizie had watched for years while Evie hoofed it to church everyday, walking the same route up 18th to 6th Avenue where the big Lutheran church sat. It was still funny when Maizie thought about it: Evie praying. What a joke.

Now there was nothing for Maizie to do until she got the call to go on too, no liquor to run, and no insurance scams to throw over. Three Card Monte and pick pocketing were out of the question. Big time rackets, all gone.  She wasn’t the only person stuck in between, sure. She’d seen old Pezzy around at the jewelry store and down along Franklin Street where the clip joints used to stand. Back when the trolley ran, Maizie spotted Jose Luis trying to board it. She got a laugh every time the trolley took off and Jose didn’t. He’d float above the brick street with a surprised look on his mug. The ice cream man still came around in the evenings, just before sun went down, pulling his worn out horse and carrying his lantern. “Ice cream,” he called out. “Cones, popsicles, pints and half-pints…” But no one heard him any longer because he was dead and didn’t know it. Poor crumb probably wondered why no one ever bought anything from him anymore. She’d told him all about it once but he kept showing up every night anyhow, the sweet old sap.

It was what she reflected upon as she settled in a bedroom that used to be her mother’s. Thunder drummed the old house all around her. It rained pitchforks while the building creaked and moaned. In In-between Maize perceived storms in a way she never did when she was flesh and blood. She felt the freshness of the water in the rain and clouds, the moving air whirling the droplets against the outside of the house. She sensed the fire of the lightning somehow as it leapt cloud to ground. Flashes of it flickered again through the windows, closer this time, the thunder following shortly afterward.

Something scrapped against the house. It wasn’t part of the storm but from the house itself. Maizie drifted downstairs and hovered at the bottom step. All at once the heavy oak door swung open with a crash. Rain blew across the threshold.

First of all… Black hounds and bones, is that Wyatt Earp?

Here I’m moving into the next scene. Join me tomorrow to read it!

The chance you take giving the antagonist’s p.o.v. is that you gain sympathy for him from the reader. I don’t know that you’ll do that with Ramon Cabello, especially after this scene, but it will introduce a side of the story that I believe is intriguing. In developing the character I tried to think up a theme for his personality. What I decided on was passion. Ramon is amorous, choleric, and bigger than life.

Just remember, when you create an antagonist with such passion then your lead character must be just as large, or better yet, LARGER.  I have yet to introduce the main — main-est ? — character. Maizie is only one of the leads. 

I may open with a SCENE or SEQUEL. Since I’ve ended Maizie’s p.o.v. for the moment, and I’ve ended it with a SCENE, then when I return to her p.o.v. I will show her reaction to being… well, dead.

Here is the opening SEQUEL for Ramon — yes, I’m opening with a SEQUEL but it will not be boring because: 1) It’s not the opening of the book, and 2) It’s an action SEQUEL.

What the….?

A sequel is a sequel if it has emotion, thought, and decision. I will point them out to you. Your character may speak to another character in a sequel as long as you have all the elements of a sequel there, and it may have action. However, a SCENE is always a SCENE. It cannot be filled with reflections and decisions. 

February 2, 2014

Two

            A flame sparked inside Ramon’s belly. “¡MALDITO SEA!” He’d been squatting near the desk, but twisted around and scowled at his son.

The boy flinched in the chair. Cowering, Jose raised his knees to his chest. “No, Papa.” His voice trembled and climbed an octave, “No!”

“No?”

“PAPAAA…”

Springing to his feet, he grabbed at him. Jose fought and tried to kick but Ramon got a hand on one bony arm and tore the child from the seat. He slapped him hard across the face. The release of anger did nothing to extinguish the heat inside. Like wildfire, the rage jumped into his throat. Pulling back his hand, he struck the child again, on the back of his head, and on his shoulder. Jose tried to squirm away. Ramon tightened his grip and hit him over and over.

(So much emotion!!)

He’s just a kid, nine years old. (A thought intrudes.)

“¡Dios mío!” The words escaped him like a rush of wind, kicking up the flames into his chest. The fire licked higher, into his throat, tingeing his voice with fury “I will kill you. I will kill you…” Heady tendrils of madness curled up into his mind. (Yes, I’m going with a fire metaphor. Passionate fire.) He wanted to strike the boy another time – smash the finely boned features until he wouldn’t recognize the face.

            No! (Another thought…)

Ramon closed his eyes and took a deep breath, pushing the anger down.  It was like gulping lit matches.

With an enormous effort, he opened his eyes once more. Jose had his arm over his head as if waiting for more blows. Already there was a swollen red mark beneath his eye. “Go.” He pushed Jose on the shoulder. He would not hit him again. (Ah, decision.) “Go.”

“YOU.”

The voice was right next to her shoulder and Maizie jumped away. Black hounds and bones! Her nerves sang like she’d touched the electric trolley wire. Clutching her racing heart, she hissed, “Are you off your nuts, Pop, are you trying to give the screaming meemies?”

The jeweler, Pez Morales, stabbed his finger in the air. “What did you do? What did you do to us, eh?” She noticed he no longer wore his black shirt and pants but a pinstripe suit that looked a size too big. He practically floated in it. In the moonlight, Pez looked thinner, paler, but his black eyes glinted like a hound on a fresh scent. “I know who you are – Delectiva.”

Her sudden shock turned quickly to anger. “Who you calling a criminal, you toadying, Garduna-loving stoolie?”

“You are a ghost.”

Her heart slowed to a normal beat. “Your beads are strung too tight, Pop. I’m no ghost.”

“But they call you a ghost, no?”

“No,” she argued – but she paused a moment to bask in that sunshine. Pez had heard of her. The Ghost was a moniker she’d picked up after she’d gone against her father and his business partners. “Not a ghost, Pezzy. The Ghost.”

“No mi importa,” he shouted. “This is your fault what the Garduna has done to us.”

“You got ditched in a bone yard, so what? They could’ve done worse to us.”

“Si, next time they kill me.” He hunched his shoulders and peered around. “Maybe they will come again to finish me off.”

“If Basillo wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.” She looked him up and down for evidence of a backbone. “Where’ve you been anyway, to a funeral?”

Pez gazed at his clothing with an expression of surprise on his face. “De donde…?”

Each scene should have 3 or 4 twists and turns. First twist: Pez surprises her, second twist: he’s heard of her (which brings up some back story and her nickname).

She left him standing there, glaring at his glad rags, and moved toward the gates again. She had to get out of the graveyard, because the jeweler was right, maybe someone would come back for them. Maybe Basillo’s men were watching them right now, meaning to have a little more fun.

Pez caught up to her after Maizie took only a few steps. “Why were you in my store, eh, to steal from me?” He paused then, seemingly putting it all together. “You knew Señor Cabello would be there. You wanted to steal the sapphire.” He shook his head in wonder. “You wanted him to know it was you, to make him hate you more.”

“That’s right,” she snapped. “I want him to hate me more. Without consciously thinking to do it, she touched the ring on the chain at her neck. “Sprecken sie Duetsch Pops?” When he screwed up his face in confusion, she explained, “I always leave my calling card for Basillo.”

“You are loco! Don’t you know what he could do to you?”

“This,” she shouted and threw out her hands. “This is what he did to me.”

Here I’m adding something new, and another twist, that is to say more conflict. (Note: So far Maizie hasn’t figure out that she’s dead. In her next sequel I will show an emotion, reflection, and decision regarding the fact.) 

She spun around in the night air, with a heart of rebellion – and smacked her knee into a headstone.

Well, she should’ve smacked into a headstone.

Maizie turned to stare at the marble piece. It was as if she’d walked right through it.

           What a lot of hooey. I didn’t feel a thing...

Third twist:

But as she turned, something else caught her attention. It was as if she’d been gazing at a still picture on a screen and some knucklehead went to switching the slides – like one of those puzzle games where the scene was the same – but it wasn’t. What changed? Her eyes ticked off the oak trees and the opposing angles of the headstone, some more crooked than others. Beyond all that was the broken angel with its head lifted off its arm that was draped around the tombstone. Everything was just as it had been. So why did the hair on the nape of her neck suddenly stand on end?

She glanced at Pez. His features had gone slack and he’d fixed his bug-eyes on the mausoleum forty yards off. A cold shiver danced down Maizie’s spine. “What’s eating you?” she asked, keeping her voice low. He didn’t answer and she stared at the landscape again. Yes, there was something different. The angel…

If you’re writing horror or high-suspense slow down a little on the action, just for a moment, to let the scenery catch the reader’s attention. Let them figure out what’s going on and then take off again once they realize what’s happening.

Her teeth locked hard together. The angel’s arm was crooked beneath it, as if supporting its weight on the tombstone. But not five minutes ago its arm was beneath its head. Her attention darted to the mausoleum. Something moved to the front of it in a sinuous canter.

Fourth twist:

A dog.

Do you recall that I foreshadow her fear of dogs in the first scene? Whatever you genre, foreshadow big events, or important details. I plan to bring the dogs up several times in this book.

If this was her father’s idea of chiseling her, he was hitting on all eight right here.

Her eyes darted to the statue again. Its head was cocked toward them and the hard marble mouth seemed to curl. Maizie closed her eyes and shook her head. Brain tumor. I’ve got a brain tumor. That’s why I passed out in the jewelry store and now I’m hallucinating…

Opening her lids, she realized the angel had moved again. Its arm no longer supported it; it sat straight up. One of its knees was angled, as if it meant to climb to its feet. Maizie thought she could see lines on its lids, as though the eyes were opening.

Another dog moved forward and she took an involuntary step backward. One was slightly ahead of the other, with their heads lowered. Both were red-eyed and baring their fangs. “Are those your d-dogs?”

“We should not be here,” Pez answered in a high, thin voice. “We should not be here.”

Maizie jerked her head to focus on the angel, standing now, pointing a finger their direction. Before it had been only marble, chiseled in the general shape of a person with wings. Now she could see the garments stirring in the wind, the alert features, and the glowing eyes. Mounting levels of fear rose inside of her. She wanted to run but couldn’t move her legs. The wind gusted, making a high whistling sound – or was it the angel?

A voice like a trumpet shrilled, “Ssssiiiic!”

The dogs sprang forward on command, giant beasts, as enormous as lions, but black-coated and spike-eared. They moved fast and hard toward Maizie and Pez.

She flung herself backward, toward the fence and beyond. Her movement triggered a frenzied howl from the dogs and they surged after her. In her panic, she couldn’t remember climbing the fence, but at once, she was on the dirt road in front of the cemetery and hurling toward west Ybor. It didn’t seem to her that she ran, didn’t feel as if her legs moved at all, but she blazed like a comet cutting through the night. Gas lamplights on Eighth Avenue shot past her like shooting stars. People atop wrought iron balconies didn’t seem to notice her skyrocketing past or that hellhounds followed in her wake. Maizie had never run so fast in her life, and when she reached her grandfather’s house on Fifteenth Street, she went straight through the door and up the stairs to her bedroom – without turning a knob.

Tactical disaster and scene answer: Maizie gets out of the graveyard, but…

This ends the first chapter — and the first of Maizie’s scenes.  Tomorrow I’ll begin with my second character and a new “voice.” I hope you’ll join me!

In between the SCENES you place SEQUELS. Sequels are the cream between your Oreos.

A book is set up in scene sequel scene sequel scene sequel progression.

SO…

Did you figure out what the tactical disaster was at the end of the first scene?

If your character has a goal — and they should or you don’t have a scene — it raises a question in the reader’s mind. Maizie’s goal was to steal the sapphire. So the question the reader asks during the scene is Will Maizie be able to steal the sapphire?

There are three ways to answer the scene question: 1)Yes, 2)No, and 3)Yes, but…

The answer to Maizie stealing the sapphire: Yes, she stole the sapphire but… she died.

The answer to your scene question is where you start the SEQUEL. A sequel is all about your character’s reaction to the scene answer. Yes Maizie stole the sapphire, but she died. She needs to react to that

You understand that a SCENE has a goal, conflict, and a tactical disaster… A SEQUEL has emotion, reflection, and a decision. In Jack Bickham’s book Scene & Structure, he writes that everyone’s first reaction to disappointment is emotional. If you’re denied something, or in this case Maizie gets the stone but is surprised that she died, the first response is either confusion, anger, sadness, shock, etc. Here is how I had her react:

The pain in her head was gone, but not the song – The moon is shinin’ and that’s a good sign… Yea, it was shinin’ all right, straight into her wide-eyed peepers. Maizie stared at it like an alley cat on a fence post. Cling to me closer and say you’ll be mine. Remember darlin’ we won’t see it shine a hundred years from today.

Then all went quiet. The only sound Maizie heard was the air moving through a thin-clad oak tree nearby. She could smell the trees and the trodden grass. It seemed she was lying in freshly dug earth, all comfortable and soft. Wriggling her shoulders, she wallowed-in and repositioned the flower stem in her hand…

Why was she holding a daisy?

Tossing it aside, she bolted straight up and balanced on the palm of one hand to gaze left and right. More than a dozen tombstones lined up around her like a bottom row of crumb crushers in an old man’s mouth. In the moon’s shine she could make out a mausoleum in the distance. She was sitting in the dirt.

In a bone yard.

            A hundred years from today…

(Her reaction is confusion and…)

She felt a sharp stab of anger go through her. Basillo. He must’ve known she’d go for the sapphire, probably planned out the whole thing. He’d paused on the sidewalk to make sure she had the time to take the stone and then… He’d instructed his men to haul her to the cemetery. This was his way of telling her to keep her mitts off his property or next time he’d bump her off and she’d wind up here permanently. Jumping to her feet, she mashed her hand against her side pocket. Big surprise, the sapphire was gone.

Then a terrible suspicion struck her and she clawed at the chain around her neck. It was there, her father’s ring, it still dangled from the chain. She sighed in relief and glanced at the big ruby that glinted in the low light. Why hadn’t he taken it from her? Her eyes drifted further.

Why am I wearing only a white gown?

Releasing the ring, she clutched the material at her stomach. This was an invasion on her bodily privates; someone had changed her clothing while she was unconscious – while she was nakedly unaware of what was happening to her!

(Now for some reflection)

The line of thought made her stop and think a second. Why had she been unconscious? Had Basillo done something to her, to Pez Morales? Had he somehow put them to sleep? It didn’t make sense. Peering over her shoulder, she made out a receiving gate through the moonlight and the wrought iron fencing lining the property. At the west end of the fence there was a forest of black trees. She’d have to get to the road, walk home in the dark, and stay out of any passing headlights. She didn’t want her father or the Garduna to find her again, especially in this get up. Twisting around, she took a step toward the gate.

In your opening scenes and sequels you have the task of putting in backstory information. I’ve mentioned the Garduna. I’ve mention Maizie’s father’s ring. I’m still not a fan of outlining but it is a good idea to know where your story is going so that you can FORESHADOW scenes and information. Plus it makes your story very cool

That’s when the noise came from behind her. It sounded as if a small rock tumbled off a stone mountain. Maizie turned, expecting to see someone there, someone tossing pebbles maybe, and getting a kick out of her circumstances. Yea, maybe they were betting all their hooch money that she’d run off scared in ghosty-town. Well, Maizie would never give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her in a sweat.

Gazing around, she saw that nothing moved. There was, however, something she hadn’t noticed before. The statue appeared misshapen in the moonlight. It had been chiseled into the figure of a weeping angel, kneeling with its arms draping over a tombstone. Time had broken off its wings leaving jagged pieces poking out the back of it, giving it a more demonic appearance than angelic. Horror is in the details and a gal couldn’t get more terror the dough than those broken jagged wings. The stone angel’s head lay atop one of its arms and the face of it stared Maizie’s direction.

Heebie jeebie creepy. Time to shake a leg. 

Decision — time to shake a leg. With the decision comes the next scene. The goal will be to get out of the graveyard. The question the reader will ask: Will Maizie get out of the graveyard. Of course there will be conflict and then a tactical disaster — and the answer to the scene question. Join me tomorrow to view the second scene.

Maizie said, “No, no, you’re right. It’s late and I’m sure your wife and supper await you.” She stepped toward the door. “I’m behaving impulsively.”

“Ah, Senora, you’re a lover, no? We men find it attractivo to fight with our women and then to kiss to make up.”

Usually she’d kick a putz in the groin for touching her but she let Pez take her arm and lead her toward the glass case again. “Really? Are you sure you don’t mind?” (Never be too politically correct. Have your character act all the way out. It makes them real. Also, make sure you have action as well as dialog. Every part of your writing should move.)

“Es bueno.” Releasing her, he moved around the counter, searching for something with his finger in the pocket of his vest. He pulled out a small key and bent to unlock the case. When he stood again, he draped a chain across the sleeve of his black shirt, in presentation. “A necklace, sí, to complement your watch?”

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, to reveal a one-carat stud. “I’m growing tired of diamonds. I have so many already.”

Pez stared at her earlobe, his eyes sparkling like gemstones. He practically reeked with loot-lust. Maizie just imagined his little fishy thoughts, Big sale, big sale, lots of hooch after this, a bet on the bangtails, a little gambling, some cheating… She said, “Perhaps something with more color, something flashier?”

“Sí, sí, flashier.” He left the necklace on the counter, which was just plain wasteful. What a genius this guy was. While Pez bent behind the next display case, she laid her hand on the necklace, slid it toward her, and then let it drop onto the floor. She bent to take it and eyed Pez through the glass. He saw her and beamed while he pointed to a ruby ring.

Maizie smiled too as she took the necklace off the floor and slipped it into her coat pocket.  She shook her head at the ruby.

Pez frowned through the glass and then pointed to a garnet bracelet nearby. Maizie gave a negative shake and stood again. The jeweler straightened too, but with a look of confusion on his homely puss. “Too small,” she explained.

“The ruby, she is two carats.” (Remember to stay in each character’s voice. ALWAYS.)

“I want nothing less than three.” She pulled her hand from her pocket and leaned forward to confide, “Boris and I leave for New York tomorrow. There is a party, you see, others to impress.” She backed away from the counter, pretending to rethink her purchases. “I suppose there are larger jewelry houses on Madison Avenue.”

“No, no, Senora, wait. I have other pieces.” He locked the case in front of him. “Not rubies that size, but emeralds, topaz. Aquamarine.” He stepped around the counter and moved toward a case across the room, near the show window.

Maizie followed. “Sapphires?” (There it is, the goal. Keep the conflict going.)

“Sí, sapphire.” He searched for another key in his pocket.

From her new position near the front windows, Maizie saw La Setima Avenida – Seventh Avenue. Gas lamplights glowed in the twilight and onto the brick road. She watched as Ybor citizens, in brightly colored rags, yakkety-yakking and lining up at the theater across the street – Cuban blood pumped excitedly through their Cuban veins… or Italian, yea. Maybe even Mexican. Look at ‘em all; look at all the stooges.

(Now I will add more pressure to the SCENE. Pressure keeps your reader reading. ) Headlights swung around the corner as a black sedan pulled onto the street. Maizie’s heart picked up speed. Black hounds and bones! She recognized the hayburner as it pulled up in front of the store and parked. The driver’s door shoved open and a tall man climbed out. He reached for the back door to allow the passenger to exit – An important passenger.

The Hermano Mayor, Maizie’s father, had arrived in style. The usual. (Some of Maizie’s background introduced.)

Time to land the fish and scram.

Pez had bent to unlock the case, hadn’t seen the sedan, because he’d had his head down. Maizie tapped on the jewelry case. With breathless excitement, she asked, “Oh my, what is that?”

Pez lifted his face just enough to see over the case. And then his eyes rounded as he realized which stone she’d meant. “Eh, no, Senora, it is not for sale.”

“I don’t understand.” Maizie held his attention, willing him to look at her and not into the street.

A bead of sweat appeared next to Pez’s ear as he slowly straightened. “I mean to say, the gem, she is already sold. Her owner comes this evening to take her away.”

(Pressure, pressure, pressure) Her shoulder muscles tightened in reaction. She needed him to get the stone out of the case. Shrugging in mock disinterest, she suggested, “It can’t be a real sapphire. Not at that size.”

“I do not sell costume jewelry.”

She slipped a quick look into the street. Her father stood on the pavement now, but he’d paused to speak to a quiff in a red dress. That was her pop, always on the make. He was hitting all sixes in a black mohair jacket. A fat cigar dangled between his fingers – Mr. Hi De Ho, Señor Basillo Cabello. Maizie smoothed over her expression trying not to give anything away. “Well, I just can’t believe it. I’ve never seen a sapphire so big.”

He shoved open the case.  Harder than necessary it seemed to her. He was a touchy one, old Pez was. “It is a 20-carat Burmese sapphire, looted from the belly of a Buddhist statue.” He bent and took the stone from its spot in the back of the cabinet.

“Looted?” she asked, trying not to grin, surprised that he mentioned such a thing. “You mean it’s stolen?”

He laid the stone between them on a white velvet show board. It was cornflower-blue, clear of any blemishes, and to Maizie’s eye, it was more like 19.75 carats than 20. Either way, she was peeping at a rock of gob-smacking proportions… but what was the smell? Did Pez have cookies baking in the backroom? It was as if she was back in her grandfather’s candy store, roasting the almonds to add to the chocolate. That was it – she smelled toasted almonds. (Right here I’ve added a clue for something that will follow later on in the story. If you write mystery, make sure to get your clues started early.) Maizie lifted her eyes to the jeweler’s. He hadn’t answered her question; had he seen her father?

Pez pulled at the collar of his shirt with his index finger. “Son Casas, no?” His face had lost all color. He reached for the sapphire, but his hand didn’t make it so far.  “Lo siento, disculpe…”’           

“What’s your story morning glory?” Maizie asked, dropping the formal English. “You don’t look so hep.”

Without another word, Pez timbered backward, stiff straight, as if he had a tree stuck up his keister. He hit the floor hard and lay there not moving. Maizie jumped and draped herself over the glass case to see all of him. “Well… damn.” In the low show light it looked as though Pez’s mouth had turned blue around the edges. Heart attack? Or maybe he’d seen the Hermano kingpin through the window after all and it caused ol’ Pezzy to blow his wig. Yea, he’d keeled over in a dead faint just from one look at her pop.

Sliding off the counter, she landed on her feet again and picked up the sapphire, feeling its weight. This had all been too easy. It was like stealing sapphires off a dead man’s eyes. She dropped the stone into her pocket. It was heavy, over five grams easy, and downright scandalous. It might slow her getaway. What a laugh. “Thanks for making this such a piece of cake, Pezzy,” she called over the counter. Spinning around, she checked the window. She didn’t see her father. The car was still there, so was the driver, but Basillo was nowhere. Maizie swallowed and forced down a sudden feeling of childlike panic that pattered around in her belly.

The hounds in the backroom began barking and the sound sent her pulse racing. Her father meant to take the back entrance. She’d meant to leave that way, but plans change. A gal has always got to be ready to think on her feet. This meant she’d have to go out the front door and get past the driver without calling attention to herself. Had Pez locked the front door? All of the sudden she didn’t remember. Where’d he put the key? Her thoughts were rambling now, scampering like a panicked squirrel.

God it’s stuffy in here…

She placed her palm on the glass counter. What’s going on with the lights anyhow? They’d turned red. Purple. She couldn’t breathe and pulled at the neckline of her blouse. A flash of pain crossed her forehead, nearly blinding her, and it sent her to her knees. The impact with tile floor seemed pleasant compared to the agony going on behind in her eyes. With a weak effort, she got her hand down onto the ground. A quivering fearful little voice in her head told her something was wrong. She had to get out of the shop.  She didn’t remember why all the sudden. Another effort only sent her toppling sideways, making her head spin, her stomach heave. She tried to rise up again but couldn’t. Everything spun too much. The dogs stopped barking. She heard shoe heels clipping across the floor, coming closer to her.

And then every thing went black.

And that is the end of the first SCENE. Do you recognize the disaster? See you after Christmas!

“But wait,” you ask, “where do I start…?” And I say, “At the moment of change.”

Yes, at the moment of change. Did I mistype something?

Your character is bobbing along through life as if riding a colorful pony on a carousel – and bam! Some horrible problem smacks their bitty horse right out from beneath them and they go sprawling into the circus dirt with the big tent lights swirling in their dizzy vision. Now that’s a place to start isn’t it? You need to snatch your reader’s attention and rub their face in the dirt along with your character’s.

My story will begin when my main character dies. I think that’s big life-changer.

Also, my story will begin with a SCENE. Not a SEQUEL, a SCENE. You may begin your story with a SEQUEL if you like – but that would be horribly boring of you. Yes I will judge you for it. The world will judge you for it! And please don’t start out with a long diatribe of the history of City of Hatred or some such place. There are ways to introduce such dullness but it’s not the first twenty paragraphs of the manuscript, believe me.

Note: A SCENE consists of your character having a goal. My character, before she died, was a thief. Her goal in the first scene is to steal a sapphire. The next element of the SCENE is conflict. It’s not going to be easy for her to steal this sapphire. I will use at least 4 twists and turns before she either accomplishes her goal, or she doesn’t. The end of the SCENE will be the tactical disaster, which is to say, not everything goes your character’s way. A tactical disaster is what you plan ahead of time to go wrong for your character – so that the story goes forward to the next complication and the next one after that. What I’ve done in the past is map a story by figuring out every scene of the book before I write it. On a index card I write the goal across the top line. Beneath it I bullet point 3 o 4 twists and turns for the conflict and then at the bottom of the card I write out the disaster.

Now I will begin the story. But, before I forget… Make your first sentence count.

November 2, 1933

Fourteen minutes before Maizie Otto died she was leaning against a glass counter in Pez Morales’ jewelry shop – El Oro y Diamantes Boveda. (See what I mean? First sentence has to grab your reader.) 

  Yea, yea, big deal, ring-a-ding-ding. (Internal thoughts by your character are italicized.)

Pez hadn’t noticed her. He was too busy switching off lamps and locking the door; turning over the Open sign to read Closed. What a nervous little doof, skinny, long-faced, and oily-headed. Old Pezzy thought he was smooth but Maizie knew he was small change, nothing but tin. “Sprecken sie Duetsch?” she asked in a loud enough voice to cause the dogs in the storeroom to bark. A chill iced the nape of her neck. She hated dogs.

(Okay, a couple of things about narration. This is a SCENE but it has some narration going on too, to describe where my character is in the scene. Always keep narration in your character’s voice. It’s much more fun to read  if you add “voice.” Don’t simply describe the setting or a character, use your point of view character’s manner of speech. Obviously my character is a fast-talking know it all from the 30s … as you’ll see in the following):

She almost laughed when the jeweler about jumped out of his fancy-cut suit. “¡Dios mío!” he let out, scowling in the half-light. “No German, comprenda? Español, Inglés, or get out.”

He’d be more polite if he realized who stood in front of him. If he knew her at all, he’d lock his jewelry cases lickitty split. But he was so distracted, poor egg – poor crumb. Yea, she felt sorry for the grease ball, because she had the bulge on old Pez, knew all about the Hermano Mayor coming to collect the bootlegged sapphire…

Because Maizie always cased a joint before she robbed it.

(Don’t be worried about using one-sentence paragraphs like the one above. It makes the idea stand out.)

The jeweler stepped toward the door. “You will leave now. The store, she is closed.”

(Pez has his own diction, separate from Maizie’s. Let your character’s stand apart from each other. The reader will always know who’s speaking, even if you don’t use the attribution “he said, she said.”)

The name Pez, she knew, meant small fish in the Spanish language. Why anyone would name a kid that was beyond Maizie. She figured it worked out since she meant to catch the little guppy all right. Straightening, she lengthened her arm from the long sleeve jacket she wore and let her diamond-faced watch capture the light. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the time.” She said it with a polished American accent that she’d picked up at the German American Club years ago; Maizie was a whiz at languages and accents. She shook her wrist, letting the gems sparkle in the low lights. Come on, Pezzy; take the bait.

(On the very first page of your manuscript you should have similes and metaphors. Don’t leave them out EVER. In the following paragraphs you’ll note Maizie “fishing.”)

          Concluir, it is time to leave. We are closed. Concluir.” His hand reached for the knob.

She stepped into the light to show off the expensive cut of her jacket – she’d togged to the bricks for this job. “I’m sure I’ll thank you for this in the morning,” she said, acting as though she meant to go. “It’s just that I’m angry at Boris and I want to spend, spend, spend.”

So far there’d only been a look of haughty superiority on his mug. Maizie was used to it. She was a Face to the Spanish population in Ybor City. They didn’t like Faces, the Caucasians, unless the Face was rich. She’d never been rich exactly, and she was plain as a wall but that suited her just fine. It made her occupation of choice a whole lot simpler when people didn’t remember her. She never bothered with makeup or fancy hairdos, didn’t wear swanky dresses – unless the job called for it – and she never laughed out loud or giggled like the flapper girls in the speakeasies.

Unless the job called for it.

The jeweler’s eyes narrowed as he soaked up her appearance, and the diamonds she tweaked in the lamplight.

Watch the shiny-shiny, little fishy.

“Por Favor, I do not mean to rush you.” Pez dropped his hand away from the door, his peepers transfixed on her watch.

And the Chump Award goes to Little Fish Morales.

I believe that’s enough for today. Lesson continued tomorrow! Hope you’ll join me